


Warm

by elixia13



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elixia13/pseuds/elixia13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder recovers from the events of the Biogenesis mytharc and</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Clean, and is probably best understood by  
> those who've read that story. If you're reading this one first, it's  
> important to know that Skinner has been purged of the nanocytes and also  
> manipulated Krycek into helping Scully get Mulder back.

I remembered seeing a vague flicker of Scully's hair, her tears,  
stumbling--and then more darkness. Before that, there's mostly pain and  
confusion, fear, a pervading chill working in through my skin, a brief  
moment of warmth. I almost grasped something in between, a jumbled mass of  
images--Fowley, Spender Sr., my own face distorted, the bright beach I've  
visited in dreams since early childhood.

When I first woke up in the hospital, I felt a weight on my hand and  
looked to see who was there. Skinner, in grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, sat  
in a wheelchair next to my bed. I couldn't make any sense of the image, but  
I knew there was something I needed to remember. As I lost my fragile hold  
on consciousness slipped away from me, Skinner met my gaze and smiled at me  
while my eyes slid closed again.

When I awoke next, I felt much more aware. I woke to a doctor examining  
me and saw Scully right behind him, shadowing him, watching his every  
action. I panned my eyes across the room and spotted Skinner, in jeans and a  
green shirt this time, leaning against the window pane, light filtering in  
behind him. I blinked my eyes and realized that Scully and the doctor were  
talking to me. Scully smiled at me, took my hand.

"I'm going out into the hall with the doctor, but I'll be right  
back, Mulder. Skinner..." she trailed off and looked over towards the  
window. "He'll stay with you, okay?"

I nodded and heard her leave, the door clicking quietly closed. Skinner  
walked over then and moved himself into my line of sight.

"How are you feeling, Agent Mulder?" His gaze seemed watchful,  
as though he were searching for something in me, but I couldn't think of  
what he was looking for. Every time I tried, I found an internal fuzziness  
that kept me from remembering.

"I can't think," I admitted.

He smiled slightly, warmly. "They have you on some serious  
antibiotics to make sure you don't get an infection, as well as some pain  
meds, which I think you should be grateful for. They'll taper the meds off  
soon, and then you'll be able to think again."

I nodded and closed my eyes and then shivered in the ridiculous cold of  
the hospital room. Immediately, I felt movement above me, a current of air  
pushed down and then a blanket, tucked around my feet and shoulders. I  
didn't quite understand what Skinner was doing there or why he was being so  
kind, but I accepted it without thought. With his solid body standing next  
to me, I felt safe.

~~~

For the rest of the week I spent in the hospital, I didn't see Skinner.  
He'd been right--they took me off the heavy pain meds after a couple of  
days, and my thought processes jumped back up to speed, though some memories  
from the period when I was ill were still frustratingly elusive, and  
headaches occasionally took me by surprise. The last thing I could recall at  
all clearly was talking to Scully on the phone from my apartment. After  
that, events fragmented as though in a kaleidoscope, and it made my head  
hurt to try to realign them. Scully assured me that it would come to  
together eventually, but I was nervous.

Once my thinking cleared and my head-wound--surgical site, whatever--was  
healing, every possible kind of therapist the hospital housed came by to  
subject me to tests of varying degrees of unpleasantness. Because of the  
mysterious nature of what had been done to me, my coterie of visitors  
included speech therapists, physical therapists, occupational therapists, an  
optometrist, an otolaryngologist, a psychiatrist, and a social worker, who I  
very nearly tossed out the door. The psychiatrist, I gathered, had last seen  
me when I was screaming my head off in a padded room. I took great pleasure  
in discussing my Oxford credentials with him.

A Bureau shrink also visited me to evaluate me for duty, and she quickly  
decided that I would resume field duty as soon as my neurologist cleared me,  
which would probably be in a couple of weeks. The doctors declared my  
speech, hearing and vision entirely normal. My balance and coordination were  
found to be a little off, but the physical therapist agreed that the  
remaining drugs floating around my system were most likely to blame.

Still, though I acted fully confident with the therapists and the  
doctors, I felt a core of uneasiness inside myself. What if the symptoms  
didn't go away? What if they consigned me to desk duty, and I could never  
carry a gun again? Furthermore, what had really happened to me? I'd  
extracted from Scully the details of how she found me, where she found me,  
what condition I was in. Against the "better judgement" of my  
doctor, I read my hospital records from the time before my mother--my  
*mother*--had checked me out.

What I found there made me physically ill. I remembered some of it from  
my perspective--the maddening voices worming around in my skull, the  
righteous, uncontrollable anger, the conflicting movements of my body that  
nearly paralyzed me. Scully came in one afternoon to find me gulping back  
emotion over words like "hostile," "unresponsive,"  
"irrational," "psychotic," "seizure." The  
variety and amount of drugs they had pumped into my system horrified me.  
What could they have done to me? What if I had never come back? Why did they  
let me come back?

~~~

On Friday morning, they finally released me, since I was only  
experiencing an occasional bad headache. I rode home in Scully's car, and  
she settled me back into my apartment. She cautioned me to take it easy and  
stay in bed, then she went to the Bureau to get some work done.

I knocked around my kitchen and living room for the rest of the morning,  
looking at the mail I'd accumulated, checking my e-mail. Around lunchtime,  
the phone rang, and it was Skinner, not Scully as I first suspected.

"When do you expect to return to duty, Agent Mulder?"

"Uh, I'll be in on Monday morning. Desk duty, until my neurologist  
clears me. Is that acceptable, sir?"

"Well, *I'm* not clearing you for desk duty until Wednesday at the  
earliest, and I don't want to see you in the building before then. In fact,  
I think you should work half-days through next Friday. That'll give you a  
few days to get up to speed."

His concern was solicitous and frustrating, but I didn't have much choice  
other than to agree. He could have kept me out of the office all of next  
week. I remembered, too, his oddly comforting presence in my hospital room.

"Um, thank you, sir. There's still a lot I don't remember, I  
understand from Scully that you helped me."

"You're very welcome, Agent Mulder." His voice in return was  
gruff, but questioning. "What are you able to remember?"

I honestly had no idea what he was fishing for. "I remember waking  
up in the hospital, and you were there with Scully and the doctor." The  
image of Skinner inexplicably folded into a wheelchair flashed into my mind.  
"Oh! And before that, you were injured?"

"No, Mulder, I was...recovering. I'm sure Scully can give you the  
pertinent details." He paused, sighing quietly. "You remember  
nothing else from before that?"

"Nothing that makes any sense." I couldn't figure out why, but  
I felt like I was disappointing him.

"Very well, Agent Mulder. Take care of yourself."

And then the line was dead, and I felt suddenly restless. I put on shoes  
and the Yankees hat Scully had bought me to cover the shaved patches of  
missing hair. I thought I'd take a walk, pick up some Chinese, maybe some  
videos to keep myself out of trouble.

~~~

I love Scully dearly, but sometimes she treats me like an errant child,  
the child she's not likely ever to have. For that reason, I can't bring  
myself to be short with her, to take her to task for her scolded,  
"Mulder!" or her shepherding hands. When she ran into me in the  
hallway as I was leaving my apartment, her automatic assumption that I was  
intending to go into work galled me.

"Mulder, you should be in bed!"

I started to argue, but then I felt her hands on my arms, her mouth on my  
forehead, and something was released inside me. Memories shook loose and  
suddenly surfaced: Skinner's eyes, wide and sad, his thoughts repeating in  
my mind, //Mulderwanthim helphim wantMulder lovehimprotecthim helphim//. The  
feeling that I had lost, irretrievably, any hope of happiness with the man  
I'd been wanting for so long. The warmth of his arms around my shoulders,  
the comfort of his beautiful thoughts.

I gasped, coming out of the memory to find Scully staring at me, her blue  
eyes sharp and concerned. I didn't struggle as she led me to my couch and  
sat me down, placing a glass of water in my hand. I could hear the blood  
pumping in my ears as the memory settled down within me.

He hadn't said a thing. He was hoping I would remember. If I hadn't  
remembered, he would have never said a thing. Goddamnit, I thought. Damn him  
and his fucking cautiousness. I felt that I'd been given a second  
chance--*we* had been given a second chance--and I didn't want to waste it  
on tip-toeing around the truth.

I opened my eyes again to find Scully sitting next to me on the couch,  
appearing to settle in for the long haul. I pulled myself together a little  
and smiled at her. "Scully, I'm fine. Please, go back to work."

She pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. "I don't know,  
Mulder. I don't think you should be alone."

"You want to sit here watching me take a nap? Because that's what  
I'm going to do, I swear." I turned sideways on the couch and stretched  
out my legs, gently nudging her with my feet to dislodge her.

"Okay, alright, Mulder. I get the hint. But you *call* me if you  
feel any worse."

"Yes, ma'am."

She glared back at me but left, finally. The moment I heard the elevator  
ding, I called Skinner.

Kim answered briskly, her voice softening when I gave my name. "Oh,  
it's good to hear you're home, Agent Mulder. Feel better soon, okay?"  
She patched me through to Skinner without waiting for a repsonse.

"What can I do for you, Agent Mulder?"

"Sir?" Annoyingly, my voice wavered a little, betraying my  
nervousness. "I remembered."

"What did you remember, Agent Mulder?" More of his damned  
caution. All the same, I didn't want to go into detail on his office line.

"Walter. I remembered."

A soft gasp over the phone line. "I--," he faltered, and I held  
my breath. "I'll bring you dinner tonight. I'll be there by six."

"That would be great."

We hung up, and I went to take a shower, feeling obscurely like I was  
preparing for a first date. More than anything, I wanted to scrub away the  
miasma of sick hospital smells. I needed to feel like a real person, not a  
collection of suspect body parts, not a patient. A man.

~~~

He arrived at ten of six, bearing take-out containers from the Italian  
place near the Hoover. Two baked spaghettis with garlic bread, two salads,  
two iced teas. He made sure we would eat well, if nothing else, and I was  
glad, since nearly everything in my own refrigerator was spoiled. The dinner  
was delicious: plenty of melted cheese, lots of garlic, mildly spicy sauce.  
After a week of dry, baked chicken and questionable beef stew in the  
hospital, I thought I was in heaven.

When we were both down to nibbling on the last crusts of the garlic bread  
and stabbing random lettuce leaves, I broached the subject at hand.  
"You never did tell me why you were being treated at the  
hospital."

He sighed, reluctant. "The nanocytes. They'd been reactivated."

He told me the story, then, of Krycek threatening him and reactivating  
the submicroscopic machines in Skinner's blood. I made a heroic effort to  
keep from shouting, "I knew it was Krycek! I knew it!" Skinner  
explained that his body had formed an immunity to the nanocytes and rejected  
them, effectively curing him. I was suspicious that there was more to it,  
but I could tell, from years of dealing with him, that he would go no  
further. That impressive jaw was locked up tight, on the issue on his  
nanocyte infection, at least.

For a few moments, we both clammed up, and I was furious with myself for  
not seizing the moment to go forward. "I need..."

He just lifted an eyebrow in my direction, silently urging me to  
continue.

"I want to know what happened while I was in the hospital the first  
time. I've seen the *charts*, and Scully's given me some details, but I  
can't form a narrative of where I was, what I was doing. I know Scully was  
away in Africa during most of the time I was there, so there's only so much  
she was able to tell me. I need to know what happened. I have to know what  
happened to me. I have to know what they did to me!"

By the time I finished speaking, I was up, pacing my living room, my  
heart pounding in my chest. Skinner came up behind me, placed his hand on my  
arm, steered me over to the couch and gently pushed me down. He sat next to  
me, and I slumped forward, head in my hands.

"Relax, Mulder. You look like you're about to keel over. I'll help  
you fill in the blanks as much as I can. I can't answer all your  
questions--"

"Can't or won't?" I couldn't help myself. I sat up, meeting his  
eyes. His hand came over to rest lightly on my back, and I flinched away,  
immediately regretting it.

He pulled his hand back into his lap. "Can't, Mulder. Beyond what  
the doctors have been able to conjecture, I don't know what was done to you  
after you were taken from the hospital. What I do know is what *we* did with  
you before you were taken. I'll start from the beginning."

He told me about Diana calling him, asking him to come to the hospital,  
about how they kept me in an observation room. He described me pacing,  
screaming. That fit with my memory of being angry and overwhelmed, so I  
urged him to continue. He told me that Scully left for Africa at that point,  
and he talked the doctors into letting him enter the room where I was being  
kept.

I pressed him for details, and he reluctantly admitted that I'd attacked  
him and left a note in his pocket, written on a scrap of cloth. As he spoke  
of it, I remembered. I remembered how hard I worked to keep my thoughts in  
line long enough to write two words. I asked him what I looked like, and the  
phrase he used was "contained motion." I nodded, thinking of how I  
felt compelled to move in all directions at once, how eventually it became  
impossible for me to move anywhere.

He described my request for Kritchgau, as well as what Kritchgau had to  
say about that. I could tell he'd been uncomfortable with administering the  
drug to me, but I'm glad he did. As he told me, I remembered the shock of  
awareness, the crystalline quality of everything as I was suddenly able to  
sort the massive input flooding my brain.

He told me about the tests, about their frantic attempts to avoid Diana  
and the doctors, about the seizure I had, which clearly had scared the hell  
out of him. After that, they prohibited him from seeing me. They kept him  
away so they could take me. They kept him away because he'd been protecting  
me. They hurt him because he'd been protecting me. They hurt him.

Skinner broke into my miserable reverie by once again venturing to lay a  
gentle hand on my back. This time, I didn't flinch away, so he began to  
slowly rub his thumb back and forth, creating a warm spot on my back,  
relaxing me fractionally. I swallowed hard around the lump in my throat.  
"Why do you make me feel so safe?"

He was quiet for a moment, taken aback, maybe. "I--I try, Mulder.  
God knows, I haven't always *kept* you safe. Maybe you shouldn't feel that  
way around me."

"No, no, you would never hurt me. Everyone else... Diana... But you  
and Scully, neither of you would hurt me. I'm sure of it."

"You want to believe?" Gentle mocking, a slight smile in that  
hard face.

"No, I do believe. That's one thing I do believe." Certainty,  
absolute. "I heard it in my head."

He choked a little and then spoke, his voice sounding pained. "I  
didn't know if you would remember. I didn't know if--when you came out of  
it--you would remember what I, what we both had said."

"I remember that, and I remember what you did. What you gave  
me."

"What I gave you?"

"Safety, love, warmth, images of us...happy, together, happy  
together." I grinned at him, and he blushed. Assistant Director Walter  
Skinner blushed! He might have been embarrassed by admitting his  
imagination. Bureaucrats aren't expected to possess such tools, but I always  
knew that he was more than he seemed.

"I wish I could have helped you more, but that's all I could think  
to do."

"It was beautiful," I whispered, and then I leaned in and  
kissed him, pressing my lips to his mouth delicately, until they softened.  
With that tacit permission, I parted my lips and felt his lips moving along  
with me, his hand on my back pulled me in closer. I braced myself with a  
hand around his well-muscled bicep and pressed forward with my tongue. He  
tasted of garlic and tomato and basil and something musky, almost bitter,  
but not unpleasant, something exquisitely male.

I finally pulled back, gasping, relishing the lingering taste of him on  
my lips. "Hold that thought," I told him, grinning, "I'll be  
right back."

I used the bathroom and then headed for my bedroom, just to check on the  
state of things, make sure it wasn't too messy. I looked at the bed, though,  
and memory flashed--Diana, moving through the room, removing her shirt, an  
argument and then a jolt, and pain.

A sudden pain gripped my head, and I fell to my  
knees--"Fuck!"--grasping the bedpost to keep from keeling over  
entirely. The room swam sickeningly, and then Skinner was there, holding my  
shoulders steady as I swallowed back the bile rising in my throat. I closed  
my eyes and just hung onto him for a minute, and then the pain began to  
recede, leaving everything bearable again.

When I opened my eyes, he peered at me sharply and then began to stand.

"I'm just going to get my phone, Mulder. I'm calling your doctor.  
You shouldn't be home."

"No! No, it's just, it's just a bad one. They're not coming so often  
anymore, only when I remember something big. I have some pills for the  
pain..."

"Where?"

"On the counter in the kitchen."

"Okay," he nodded, appearing to reluctantly agree. "Let me  
get you in bed, then I'll get the pills."

"Is that the line you use on all your head-case agents?" I was  
trying to be witty.

"Stop that, Mulder." He steadied me as I climbed up onto the  
bed and then left the room, returning quickly with two pills and a glass of  
water. I took the pills, and then he helped me out of my shoes, jeans and  
shirt and into the bed, under the covers. Tucked in by A. D. Skinner.  
Thinking back, it really wasn't the first time.

I lay back in bed and blinked my eyes at him; the pills were beginning to  
take effect. He considered me with a wonderful mix of sternness and concern.

"I'll bring you lunch tomorrow, Mulder. Expect me around one."  
I nodded, feeling sleep coming on fast. "Any requests?"

I mumbled something that wanted to be "chickety China the Chinese  
chicken" and then dropped off to sleep. This is the reason I hate  
taking drugs: I end up quoting silly radio songs to my boss after kissing  
him and then practically passing out on him. At least I slept--dreamlessly,  
as far as I remember.

~~~

He showed up the next afternoon with a bag full of Chinese food--pepper  
steak for him, chicken and broccoli for me, wonton soup and egg rolls for us  
both. I was feeling great. The minimal pill-hangover had worn off after my  
shower and coffee, and my head was clear and pain-free. He examined me  
visually as soon as he put the food down on the counter.

"How are you feeling today, Mulder?"

"Good, great. Frisky."

"Behave yourself, Mulder," he growled at me. "Obviously we  
overdid it last night."

Inwardly I groaned. That cursed caution had reared its head again.  
"No, no, I told you, the headaches come when I remember things. And  
only sometimes."

"What did you remember that almost earned you a trip to the  
ER?"

I sighed. Fuck. I didn't want to talk about it. "Just before I ended  
up in the hospital the first time, I had an attack of the, you know, voices.  
I was in the middle of investigating that fragment at American University,  
and I was in pretty bad shape. Somehow, Diana found me and took me  
home." I gulped back my displeasure at the memory. "She, well,  
came onto me, and I was about as far from being in the mood as it's possible  
to be. I said something to her that wasn't very nice, and she slapped me. I  
slapped her back, and she hit me with a taser shock."

The surprise and anger were clear on his often-expressionless face.  
"Agent Fowley did *what*?"

I nodded. "I don't know how, but that shock ruined any control over  
what was going on in my head. I have no idea what really happened, but the  
world just went kind of crazy on me, and then I was in the hospital, pissed  
off and under-dressed. Christ, I'm not hungry anymore, and you brought all  
that food."

"Come here." He reached out and pulled me into his arms,  
chafing away the goose-bumps that had arisen at the memory of Diana's  
deception. I felt his hand move in the back of my hair, reminding me that  
the present was a good deal more pleasant than the past, that I was in the  
present with him, that he would protect me until I was capable of protecting  
myself.

We stood there for several minutes, the quiet of the kitchen around us,  
the hard tile of the floor pressing up through my shoes. The refrigerator  
kicked in suddenly, and I realized the passage of time. I nodded against his  
shoulder and pulled away. "Yeah, okay. Let's have lunch."

We ate, and he told me that he'd been keeping an eye out for potential  
X-files while I'd been gone. He told me about a small town in Colorado that  
complained of a mysteriously disappearing domestic pet population. The town  
council was certain that the nearby Department of Defense radar tower was  
drawing in UFOs, and aliens were stealing their cats, dogs and rabbits.  
Skinner was sure that coyotes were responsible for the disappearances, but  
he thought I might enjoy the trip.

His voice was magic. By the time he was done with his story, I had  
slurped down my soup and some chicken, and I was back to feeling frisky. I  
spent five years, give or take, wanting my boss, watching his perfect ass as  
he strode into meetings, appreciating his broad chest when he was in my  
face, bringing me into line. I would sit in front of my videos at night,  
watching skinny blond women, getting myself off, coming every time from the  
mental image of my tall, bald boss holding me down, his strong arms around  
me.

I squeezed some duck sauce out onto my plate and pulled my egg roll from  
its paper wrapper. I glanced up at Skinner to make sure he was watching me  
and then swirled the end of the egg roll into the little pool of sauce. I  
raised the egg roll to my mouth and sucked off the duck sauce before taking  
a small bite and swallowing it. I noticed Skinner's face getting a little  
flushed and repeated the process again, lazily moving the egg roll until it  
was lightly covered with sauce and then decadently, thoroughly tasting it.

I was going for a third try when I heard Skinner growl, "No."  
He reached over and took the egg roll from my hand and then stood up,  
standing above me. "Now." He took my hand and pulled me up to him,  
quickly kissing away the traces of duck sauce from my mouth, replacing the  
sweet taste with a spice-tinged musk of desire.

We moved into the living room, and he nimbly undid my belt and pulled  
down my pants before pushing me back onto the couch. He dropped to his  
knees, locked his hands on my hips, and then I was engulfed by his hot,  
moist mouth. He pulled on my hips, making me fuck his mouth, his tongue  
swirling on the head of my penis, his lips moving up and down the shaft. I  
could barely breathe, and my climax approached fast and undeniable.

The thrusting rhythm he created had me locked in its grip. He moved one  
hand to supplement his mouth on my dick, and the other hand reached up under  
my shirt, teasing my nipple into a hard nub with his rough thumb. I  
shuddered at the added stimulation and came, sliding down, sweat-slick, on  
the warm leather of my couch. His hands braced my hips as I rode out the  
receding waves of pleasure. I came back to myself to find him smirking up at  
me like the cat that had got the cream.

"Jesus, Skinner, you sure know how to suck a man off."

He hoisted himself up to the couch and kissed me, oddly enough, on the  
corner of the mouth, primly as an aunt. "My name's Walt."

~~~

Once I felt that my bones would carry me again, we moved into the  
bedroom. He looked at me, questioningly. "You okay?"

I didn't know if he was asking about my post-orgasmic state or my  
post-Diana state, but I nodded--yeah, I was fine. Nearly done-in by  
lethargy, but quite fine. I removed the rest of my clothes, helped  
Skinner--Walt--Walt out of his, and got into bed, pulling him in beside me.  
As sleep washed over my sex-addled brain, I instinctively curled in close to  
his solidity and heat, feeling his smooth skin under my hands and then  
little else.

I woke to find that Walt had extricated himself from my grasp but was  
sitting beside me on the bed, sipping a cup of coffee and watching me. I  
felt refreshed and happy after my post-coital nap. Walt had put his briefs  
on, assumedly to potter around my kitchen making coffee, but I could see  
through the thin fabric that he was half-hard, probably had been for some  
time. He'd treated me to a positively seismic blow-job earlier, but we  
hadn't done anything for him.

I sat up, yawning, and leaned over him, prying the coffee cup from his  
hand and placing it on the beside table.

"What, do you have a 'no drinking in bed' rule?"

"No, but I think we have some more pressing business to attend  
to." I swept my eyes over his erection.

He shook his head. "No, Mulder, no. You're recovering--"

"I'm fine."

"You're *recovering*. You just got out of the hospital."

"I'm *fine*. I could suck you off. That's not too athletic."

"Do you want to suck me off? Is that what you really want?" His  
eyes burned into me, compelling the truth.

"I want you to fuck me."

"Mulder, I want to make love to you, but you're recovering."

I moved myself to straddle his legs so that I could look him straight in  
the eye. I placed my hand on his jaw and rubbed slightly with my thumb,  
feeling the slight friction of stubble. "You are not going to hurt me.  
I've done this before. You've done this before, yes?"

He turned his head toward me and kissed the palm of my hand. "Yes.  
Yes, okay. But, Mulder, we take this slow. Not like earlier. I'm so  
sorry--"

"If you apologize for making me feel that good, you're out of here.  
And take off your shorts."

"Yes." He lifted his hips under me, and I helped him remove the  
flimsy white briefs. "But this time we're taking it slower. If I hurt  
you, none of this is worth it."

His concern was touching. Irritating, but touching. I kissed him briefly  
on the lips and then moved my mouth down, kissing along his rough jaw and  
his throat, feeling his groan of arousal through the vibration on my lips.  
One hand braced me on the bed while the other tangled in the grey-brown hair  
fuzzing his chest, a prodigious amount of hair indeed. I tilted my head to  
suck at one nipple, feeling it spring to life in the moist heat of my mouth.  
Skinner groaned again, deeply, and I could feel the rumble in his chest. I  
moved my oral attentions to his other nipple, keeping the first one erect  
with my fingers.

Finally abandoning his chest, I kissed a line down his taut, well-defined  
stomach until I arrived at his cock, which was by then very hard, very  
impressive, very ready. I looked up into his face; he was panting and  
beautifully flushed. "Fuck me?" I asked him quietly.

"Yes, oh God, Mulder, yes. On your stomach. Oh, shit,  
where...?"

"Drawer, by your right hand." He pulled out a condom and some  
lube, while I arranged myself on the bed, facedown, my knees up under me a  
little, a couple of pillows to support my head. I felt his hand caress my  
back, moving from my shoulders down to the top of my exposed ass.

"You're so beautiful." He whispered it, almost as though he  
were talking to himself and not to me. His hands left me but returned,  
bringing the startling coldness of lube. He tentatively worked the lubricant  
into me with one finger, and it felt so good to have him, or part of him,  
inside me at last. I had waited years. I had waited years to have Skinner  
making love to my ass.

He stretched me slowly, maddeningly so, with that one finger and then  
introduced a second, occasionally brushing my prostate and sending  
shimmering sparkles of pleasure through me. I was open and relaxed and  
ready. "In me now!"

"Relax, Mulder, I said slowly."

"Please, *please*, I've never been so ready."

"I can see you're going to be the death of me," he murmured,  
but then he pulled his fingers from my ass, and I could hear him preparing  
himself, rolling on the condom and coating it with more lube. He kissed me  
tenderly in the middle of my back, and then I felt the head of his cock  
entering me.

It consumed me--the feeling of being taken by him. After a couple of  
breathtaking thrusts, he was deep inside me, and I felt filled to my  
fingertips. I wanted to weep, it felt that wonderful. "I love  
you," I whispered to him, and I felt his hands brace on my rib cage as  
he pulled out of me and pushed back in again smoothly.

He sat up a little more behind me, angling his thrusts so that he brushed  
my prostate each time, and I was getting hard again, getting harder. I  
started pumping myself in time to his quickening pace. I could sense him  
starting to lose control, that precious control he holds so close to his  
heart. His thrusts came faster, faster, he yelled my name and then he came,  
jerking inside me, shuddering above me until I came again, too, more  
quietly.

After a moment, he pulled out of me and removed the condom, tying it off  
and throwing it somewhere. I turned around onto my back and stretched out my  
legs, pulling him down flat on top of me like a blanket. Lying on top of me,  
sacked out and oblivious, he was everything I'd wanted so much during these  
last terrible weeks. Warmth, comfort, security, safety. And love, I think,  
too.

We would have to talk later, about what our intentions were, about how we  
were going to handle our relationship, considering the kinds of lives we  
both led. There were things I had to tell him, things that didn't seem  
appropriate for a second date, so to speak. I felt changed, since my return.  
I couldn't explain it, but I felt overwhelmingly that I didn't want to be  
old and alone. I didn't want to *die* alone.

I knew there would be infinitely more talking, but also more kissing and  
more sex and more take-out dinners. At that moment, though, drowsy again in  
his arms, I pulled the comforter over us to keep him from getting cold as  
the sweat dried on his back. I closed my eyes and breathed in the delicious  
scent of spent desire and relaxed further into his blanketing weight. I had  
come in from the cold to find his encompassing warmth, and I knew I'd never  
be alone out in the cold again.

~~~

THE END


End file.
